The birds and bees
by johnlockedcumbercookiez123
Summary: Sherlock falls ill one day, but everyone shakes it off as a flu, or migraine, but it is revealed to be something more! MPREG. JOHNLOCK
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was the worlds greatest mind, and he knew things nobody else did...except when he was sick. He couldn't even distinguish a headache or sore throat. He knew his body was slower, but he passed it off as an experiment.

John looked at his flatmate, and sighed.

Sherlock glared at him, and put on his coat, and ran halfway across London, to a case. John quickly followed.  
L  
When they arrived, Sherlock looked at the crime scene.

"Murder. John, call a cab, I have no use being at such a simple crime scene!"

He swallowed, and leaned against the wall. John looked at him.

"Sherlock? Are you-"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine..."

Sherlock hailed a cab, then climbed in. The hot cab made him dizzy. John looked at him, and sighed. John knew sherlock was ill.

The cab moved, and Sherlock paled. He started sweating and John knew they had to get out. The cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street. They got out, and Sherlock leaned against the lamppost.

"Sherlock?"

John looked at him, and checked for a fever.

"Sod it sherlock! You're running around London with a fever! Why didn't you /tell/ me you were ill?!"

Sherlock shivered, and walked up the stairs, and collapsed on the floor.

"Sherl, you need to stand up, love."

Sherlock choked out a sob.

John pulled his lover's lanky body up, and helped him to the loo.

Sherlock stumbled, and collapsed on the floor again.

"Well, Sherlock, look who is playing sick again!" Mycroft spat. "Hoping mummy believes you."

"Sod off Mycroft!" John snapped. "He isn't faking it!"

Sherlock looked at his brother, "I'm not faking it! I am legitimately ill!"

"If you aren't faking it, prove it!"

Sherlock was about to make a snide remark, when his stomach clenched. He choked on bile, and swallowed. John was telling him to just let it go. Sherlock felt the bile slide up his throat, and he didn't suppress it this time. He opened his mouth...and promptly threw up on Mycroft.  
John stifled a laugh, and helped Sherlock sit up, so he could throw up in the bathtub if he needed to.

"Jawn, I'm gonna be sick!" He whined.

Sherlock threw up again, and glared at Mycroft.

"Sherlock, you are a git." Mycroft smirked.

"Leave."

John came in and helped sherlock sit up. He gave him some water.

"Don't drink it too fast, it'll make you be sick again if you do."  
Sherlock sipped on the water, and John called Lestraude.

"Jawwwwnn! I think I'm going to be sick!"

Sherlock started to dry heave, and gagged.

John sat by Sherlock, and waited for Lestrade.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade stepped into the small bathroom, and kneeled by him.

"Oh, Sherlock. You need to go to the A&E..."

Sherlock fell back, holding his stomach.

Lestrade looked at the bile, and blood.

Blood?!

"John, I think you'd better come here." Lestrade panicked.

"I need to call the A&E, we need to get him to an emergency unit." John said frantically.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Stay with me." Lestrade panicked.

Sherlock blinked slowly. His stomach wrenched, and he doubled over, holding his stomach in pain. He choked out a sob. John knew Sherlock never acted this way, something was wrong with his friend.  
Sherlock vomited again, his throat raw. He had tears in his eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm calling an ambulance." Lestrade said, pulling out his mobile phone.

Sherlock curled into himself, holding his stomach. John drew circles on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock coughed, and looked at John.

"My stomach hurts."

John rubbed his back.

"I know."

John picked Sherlock up, and carried him to the couch.

Sherlock looked at him.

"Jawn, what'ss goinnn onnnn?" He slurred, from dizziness.

"You're sick, love."

"I'm not sick! I never get sick!"

"You're sick Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist and he tried to get John. He lurched forward and vomited on the floor.  
John stroked his spine. Sherlock shook, as he felt a large wave of nausea hit him. He rolled over, groaning.  
John gave him a worried look.  
The flat was spinning rapidly around him. He lifted his head, only to fall back on the pillows, groaning. His stomach leapt into his throat, and he tried to say John's name, but the overwhelming nausea covered him. He threw up as his throat burned.  
Sherlock looked at John, and moaned. John looked at him, and kissed matted curls. Sherlock vomited again, as medics lifted him onto a stretcher. He felt restraints holding him, and a bedpan was placed by his head,, in case he would throw up.

John begged then to let him ride with Sherlock. He was allowed, as Sherlock started to gag. John rubbed Sherlocks stomach. John rubbed his eyes, looking at the body of his sick friend. Sherlock had stopped throwing up, but was still green.

"I'm hungry, John."

"I don't think you're up to eating just yet, you're still pretty green Sherl. You've been vomiting all day."

Sherlock tasted a film of stomach acid, and swallowed a sickening amount of saliva. He put a hand on his stomach, and jolted forward, feeling his stomach contents fill his mouth. He looked at John desperately. John patted his back, as Sherlock sort of coughed, and vomited at the same time. The mess splattered on the bedsheets, as Sherlock heaved. John grabbed some saltines and powerade from the bedside table. He got Sherlock in a seated position, as he swallowed the powerade. John looked at Sherlock, whose skin was a pale green tone.

"God, what did I eat to get this sick?"

"You were experimenting with mould, and you ate a seven month old sandwich, and twelve day old milk..."

Sherlock put a hand on his stomach, nausea bubbling under his skin.

"...you also were using human eyes in water to see if they became rubbery."

Sherlock groaned.

"You've been attacked with mould, and bacteria from sour milk, salmonella most likely."

Sherlock looked around, and took in his surroundings, he was in the hospital. He felt vomit fill his mouth again, as the lights blinded him.

"Sherl? You okay?"

Sherlock vomited again.

"You are throwing your guts up. You need to eat something like yogurt to combat the bacteria."

John took some yogurt and soon fed it to Sherlock. The younger man gagged, and almost upchucked his stomach contents.

John kept stroking his stomach, willing Sherlocks sick stomach to hold the food.

"Jawn, I don't feel well."

"I know, love. I'm going to get some medicine pumped in your intravenous line."

"Jawn, stay. Please."

"I'm getting a nurse. Love, you are running a fever."

John heard Sherlocks stomach gurgle, and massaged it.

"John. Stop, I think I'm going to... Going to..."

Sherlock brought up another round of vomit.

John looked at the nurse.

She ran a hand through Sherlocks hair.

"Mr. Holmes, you are very ill. Your stomach can barely keep itself from eating itself up. I need to give you some ipecac. It will make you sick, meaning it will cause you to vomit. We are going to then test your vomit for bacteria, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, and was given a cupful of brown liquid. He downed the cup, scowling. His eyes widened as he felt the familiar tug of nausea. He retched, and quickly alerted John to his stomach contents rising in his throat. John grabbed a bucket, and gave it to Sherlock.

Sherlock heaved into the bucket, cringing at the sound of his vomit hitting the bin. John rubbed his back. Sherlock spewed as he felt his stomach reel sickeningly.

"John... I don't feel well at all. I want to go back to Baker Street!"

"Oh, love. I know you don't feel well, but you're extremely ill. Please just let them take a look." John pleaded.

"John, I'm going to be sick! I need to just sleep!"

Sleep?

John took a butterfly needle from the table and looked at Sherlock.

"Sherl. I need you to make a fist, I'm gonna check for a blood sample."

Sherlock weakly made a fist, as John tapped at a blue vein.

"Okay, love. I'm putting the needle in. Stay calm."

Sherlock hissed, as the needle pierced his vein. The vial filled with blood, and Sherlock shivered as the needle was taken out.

"There, there Sherlock, I'm almost done."

John put a bandage on Sherlocks arm, and held pressure until the blood clotted. Sherlock coughed as his stomach roiled.

"Sherl! You don't look so good. You're paler than a ghost."

"Jawn, my stomach keeps jumping around. I'm going to be sick!"

"I'm trying to help love! I know you have a stomachache."

Sherlock threw up, feeling his stomach churn, as if he was on a ship with a choppy river.

"Oh God, Sherl... I'm getting more ipecac, you need to get everything out."

Sherlock whined.

John gave him another cup of the brown liquid. Sherlock choked it down, feeling his head spin.

He was soon hunched over the bed, vomiting again.

He dry heaved after about twenty minutes of emptying his stomach.

"I'm going to give you a fever reducer. It's going to taste funny, but I don't think it'll make you throw up."

Sherlock took the pill and fell on the covers, shivering.

The nurses came in with the test results, "severe food borne illness" Sherlock had the worst case of food poisoning.

He was going to be okay, but he would become very ill if he didn't take the antibiotic.

Sherlock looked at John, "My stomach feels funny."

"You just had two doses of ipecac, you are bound to have a stomachache."

"Am I going to be able to eat ever again?"

"You're asking to eat?! You must've been really sick, or really insane!"

Sherlock felt a smile tug on his pallid face.

John gave him a banana, to get his potassium levels up. Sherlock choked it down, almost regurgitating it back up.

John kept feeding him light food, and hoped Sherlock's sensitive stomach would accept it.  
By four am, John had fallen asleep on Sherlocks floor, since he had been discharged on the condition John took care of his flatmate.

"Jawnnn?"

He snapped awake, at the faint call of his friend.

"Sherl, what hurts?"

"Jawnnn..."

"Do you feel nauseous?"

"I feel extremely nauseous, and my stomach is bubbling and moving.:.."

"Have you thrown up since we got home?"

Sherlock pointed to the carpet stains. John sighed. Sherlock curled into a ball. He grabbed some medicine for Sherlock, and put two tablets in his hand. Sherlock swallowed the drug, and fell back. John smoothed matted curls, and whispered goodnight. Maybe he could get some shut eye.

-:/-

"Jawn? Jawn! Jawn!" Sherlock called, his voice hoarse from throwing up.  
John came in.

"What's wrong Sherl?"

"I just threw up again. I feel like the flat is spinning, and my head is pounding."

John took in consideration. He rubbed Sherlocks hand.

"Do you have photosensitivity? Do sounds bother you?"

"My head hurts when I look at light, and usually nothing bothers me. Nothing. My head pounds when I hear even the slightest noise. I can't go to my mind palace! Everything is jumbled around!"

Sherlock was close to tears, a state no one had seen in him, not even Mycroft! John rubbed soothing circles in Sherlocks hand.

"Sounds like you're suffering from migraines. You just have to wait it out, and I can order some medicine, but for now I have to give you Tylenol."

Sherlock groaned.

"I know love."

"I can't even think. My greatest asset is failing me..." Sherlock whispered. He choked back a sob.

"I'm useless. I can't even think logically. I can't stand being like this John!" He sobbed.

John traced Sherlocks shoulder blades, and hugged him.

"Oh, Sherl."

"Jawn, can you get mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked feebly.

"Okay."

"Oh, you poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson gasped. She stroked Sherlocks hair, causing him to recoil in pain. He was ashen, and shivering like a leaf. She offered him a cuppa, but he pushed the warm cup away from his nose, knowing that the mere smell of food would cause him to retch.

She looked at John, and said something unknown to Sherlock, and left.

"What did she say?" Sherlock whispered, pulling his knees to his chest.

"She wants me to write a prescription for your migraine. I told her I would do a checkup in this room, and then if you need it I will write it."

"Let's begin, Doctor." Sherlock said with a faint smile on his otherwise dead face.

John took Sherlocks temperature, thirty-nine degrees Celsius, a slight fever. He shone a light in Sherlocks eyes, causing Sherlock to moan and close his eyes. He moved Sherlock around the room, to see if he had vertigo. Sherlock swayed on the spot, and collapsed, shaking to keep from passing out.

He put out some dry toast for Sherlock, but he refused to eat, because the mere sight of food made his stomach knot up.  
His face had gotten waxy, and a bit of green was showing. John took the toast and threw it away.

He was right, Sherlock had a migraine. The only thing he could do was wait it out...  
Easier thought than done...

-:/-/

John spent his off time from the surgery, tending to Sherlock. He would come back, and would check on the lump of blankets in his room. He called Mycroft, despite the pang of guilt for going against Sherlocks wishes.

"Sherlock has a migraine. I don't know how long they last for him. It's been days since his last meal. Did he ever get migraines?"

"John, those migraines are a result of his old addiction. He's been sober for years. He only gets those migraines after a big case, he doesn't take care of his body. Has he been delirious yet?"

"Delirious?! What-no!"

"Good. When his migraines reach the delirious level, he can get...bad."

"How bad?"

"He starts seeing things, hallucinating. He feels like there's this invisible force holding him down. Once he thought he saw a ghost. And he's the most sound mind London has the pleasure of housing."

"Can't we do anything?!" John begged.

"His episodes last for about a week, and the constant vomiting gets him very dehydrated. You need to hook up a saline drip, and give him nutrients through an intravenous line."

"I figured he would need some fluids, so I grabbed them from the surgery."

"John! John! Come! Quickly! It's Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"Shit, Mycroft, I need to go. Sherlock is ill again. I'm sorry and thank you."

He tapped the 'end' button on his phone, and ran upstairs.

Sherlock was in his bed, shaking and crying. John looked at him.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? What's going on?"

"There...there are cuts everywhere!"

John pulled up Sherlocks sleeve, and saw no cuts up and down his arm. John looked at him.

"You're hallucinating, love."

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock dug into the sheets. Tears fell down his face. John patched up Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him.

"Turn the lights and blinds off! I think I'm going to vomit!" Sherlock begged.

John shut the blinds, and dimmed the lights, as Sherlock started to gag.

"I'm gonna go through and have you rate each symptom from one to ten."

Sherlock whined.

"One is not hurting at all, ten is send me to the A&E."

"Dizziness?"

"Five."

"Photophobia?"

"Ten!"

"Phonophobia?"

"Eight."

"Nausea?"

"Nine."

"Head pain?"

"Ten."

"Stomachache?"

"Six and a half."

John added the numbers which was 47.5. Almost fifty points for a migraine.

"I'm calling Greg, we're going to the emergency room." John stepped downstairs, and called Lestrade. He then took Sherlock downstairs, with a towel to shield his eyes, and took him to the ER.

Sherlock felt horrible. The noises of people coughing, or vomiting made him wince. The bright fluorescent lights lit up his pale face. He shut his eyes, and tugged on John's jumper. John petted his head.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

John picked up Sherlock, and carried him to the exam room. Sherlock was feeling like he was going to throw up again. He alerted the nurse by covering John in his stomach contents. John took off the jumper, and rubbed Sherlocks back. Sherlock retched, then remembered his head hurt. He clutched his stomach, moaning as he felt his stomach bubble with nausea. John grabbed a sick bag for him, and gave it to Sherlock, who had started to have probably the worst case of vomiting ever. He filled two of the bags, and threw up all over himself as well. John stroked his back. He cringed as his body heaved forward, in extreme pain.

"Sherl?"

John picked up Sherlock, and waited for the intravenous line to be put in. Sherlock started shaking, and his breakfast of eggs started sloshing in his belly. He burped, trying to calm his sick stomach. John looked at him.  
Lightning lit up the room. Sherlock dived under the duvet, shaking. John looked perplexed. The great Sherlock Holmes, terrified of a thunderstorm?! He stifled a laugh.  
Sherlock looked at him.

"Jawn? I don't feel good."

"I know. You need to eat something."

"No. I don't feel like it!"

"You're gonna make yourself sicker!"

Sherlock closed his mouth, and swallowed.

"Sherl?"

Sherlocks jaw twitched, and John grabbed a bucket. Sherlock opened his mouth, and threw up all over himself. He blinked a few times.

"Jawn, I'm sick. I just threw up."

"I know. Go to the loo, it's easier to clean."

"But Jaaawwwnnnn! I'm sick!"

"I know."

Sherlock pouted, and closed his eyes, listening to the beeps of the heart monitor as it put him to sleep...

/-/-/-:

Sherlock woke up, groaning. John rubbed his eyes, and looked at him.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!"

"What...time is it?"

"Noon."

"I'm hungry!"

"What do you want?"

"Chocolate cake, and cannolis."

"You sure you can handle that? You have been pretty sick lately."

Sherlock nodded, and waited for the food.

When it arrived, he ate it, and smiled.

John scoffed.

"What?"

"You're eating food... Are you feeling okay?"

Sherlock smiled, "I'm fine... I actually am oka-"

He stopped.

"Sherlock?"

"Jawn. I'm going to be sick!"

He bolted to the bathroom.

"Ah. Sherlock. You don't look well."

"I'm fine. I probably have a 24-hour bug."

He threw up again.

John sat by him and rubbed his back.

-/-

John woke up to Sherlock retching. He padded over to the loo and saw Sherlock curled around the toilet, shaking .

"John. I don't feel good."

John kissed matted curls.

He fell asleep in the bathroom, holding Sherlock close. He woke up at about 2, to Sherlock retching again.

"Sherl, I need to get a nurse."

The nurse looked at him, and ruled out cancer, brain trauma, and a fractured skull.

"You might have the flu. We are going to release you."

Sherlock and John checked out.

The next morning John woke up to sherlock vomiting.

"John!" He screamed.

John ran in, and looked at him, he looked at the thing on the counter, a fucking pregnancy test.

"Sherlock? You're a man. It's impossible to well, you know-"

"Yes. I know!"

John picked it up and looked at the screen.  
A fucking pink plus.

Sherlock Holmes was fucking preggers.

Sherlock felt tears in his eyes.

John looked at him, equally shocked.

"H-How?! Why... Why me?!" Sherlock stammered. He felt a tear fall from his eye.

"I have no idea how this is possible. I'm gonna go to the surgery and get some tests for you." John absentmindedly said.

"John, I'm scared... I don't even..."

Sherlock started crying. John held him, and looked at his cell. Three texts from Lestrade.

"Sherlock? I need you to come with me to the surgery."

"No. Donavan was right, I'm a freak!"  
Sherlock whispered.

"Look,Sherl, I need to confirm if there's a feotus. I need to do an ultrasound."

"No."

"It's okay. I'll be right beside you."

Sherlock stood up, and ambled to change.

He returned with his purple shirt, and some trousers.

"Let's go."

They walked to the surgery, and whipped up a story about Sherlock having gallbladder problems to use the ultrasound.

John pulled out the machine and put some cold gel on Sherlock's abdomen.

He moved the wand and gasped at the screen. He was right, there was a feotus. Sherlock looked at the screen, and picked that time to lose consciousness as he fell to the ground.

-:-

"Sherlock... Sherlock! Wake up! You need to wake up love."

He groaned, his head spinning. Johns face came into focus, and tears were in his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock. We're going to be parents." He smiled looking at Sherlock.  
Sherlock nodded slowly, his brain racing.  
John looked at him, "Sherlock? What's wrong? Aren't you happy? You're at six weeks!"

"I...I don't know... I just can't think... I'm sc-" sherlock stopped, and threw up on himself again.  
John rubbed his back. Sherlock wiped his mouth, and looked at him.

"This is extremely unpleasant." Sherlock grumbled.

"Morning sickness? Yeah, it usually only lasts through the 1st trimester. I'm going to have a cup of tea for you, yeah?"

Sherlock grimaced.

John rubbed his back.

"I know this doesn't feel good, but you'll be good in about two months."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Two months?!"

"I know. You'll just have to suck it up. I'm sorry love."

Sherlock groaned.

They arrived back at 221B Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson looked at them.

"So boys, what's the diagnosis?" She asked.

"It's complicated, Mrs. H. We are going to call Mycroft and Lestrade over." John said quickly. "Sherlock isn't really in a right state at the moment."

She looked at Sherlock, who was holding his stomach, and rubbing it gingerly.

-/:/

"Okay, this might be hard for you all to take in. So I'm gonna explain it simply.."

Everyone sat in the common room, and looked at John. Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was fidgeting with his sheet.

"Sherlock's pregnant. I did an ultrasound to confirm it, and there was a small feotus on the screen. He will not be solving any cases for quite a while. You can Skype, text, call, whatever, but I do not want him running about London in this delicate state."

Everyone nodded. Then Donavon looked at them.

"Freak's going to be a father."

Sherlock felt tears in his eyes. He choked back a sob.

"I'm not a freak!" He wailed.

John wrapped his arms protectively around Sherlock, and glared at Donavon.

Mycroft escorted everyone out of the flat, and left.

/;:-


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had stopped crying, and wiped his eyes.

"I'm not a freak. Am I a freak, John?"

"No, you're not. You're my closest friend, and you're amazing. I love you."

"Lies." Sherlock spat.

"It's true, love."

"Don't let those idiots get to you. You're better than them."

"At what?" Sherlock whispered.

"Everything," John smirked, then kissed sherlock again.

That night they turned on Doctor Who, and fell asleep in eachothers arms.

-:/

The next morning Sherlock was ill again. John sat by him, and looked at him.

"Hey, Sherlock. You hungry?"

"I guess." He shrugged.

"What do you want?"

"Tuna and whipped topping sandwich. Coffee two sugars, black."

John quirked an eyebrow, "caffeine is unhealthy for the child."

"Can I have Chinese food?"

"Yeah, what do you want?"

Sherlock typed out "rice 45grams, orange chicken, litre, soy sauce, crab Rangoon."

"Mmm. Okay. Lemme order it?"

/;:

The food arrived, and Sherlock ate it, almost ravenously. John blinked in confusion.

"Slow down, love. You're going to be ill if you eat too fast."

Sherlock scowled, and finished it off.

-/-/-/;/-

Later that night, Sherlock was feeling the effects of his food choices. He wriggled up, feeling his stomach flip. He clutched it, as he felt the bed move.

"John. John!"

John raced to his room, frowning.

"You shouldn't have eaten all that, you have to suffer."

"God, you're a doctor John! Fix me!"

Sherlock groaned.

"Fine, fine. Lemme get some soup, that might settle better..."

"I don't want food, I want to die! I hate this!"

"John!"

"I'm making tea love!"

Sherlock growled.

John came in with some soup, and stomach medicine.

"Here, it's hot. So be careful!"

Sherlock sipped on the soup, and set it down after about three spoonfuls. John looked at him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock paled, and put a hand on his stomach. John grabbed a rubbish bin, and thrust it in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock gave him an odd look.

"I think it's coming..."

"Oh god... Go to the loo."

Sherlock looked at him. "Can't. My stomach hurts."

He threw up in the bin, and coughed as his stomach churned horribly.

John rubbed his back. Sherlock vomited again, and started to cry. John hugged him.

"everything is gonna be okay Sherlock."

Sherlock wiped some tears away, and curled into a ball.

"Don't leave me John. Please..."

"Never love."

They fell asleep on the couch, and John was stroking Sherlocks stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day Sherlock was blacktop his old self. He ran five blood tests, all confirming his predicament.  
"John! I'm going out!"  
"No cases Sherlock!"  
"I'm fine!"

"Sorry to bring you out Sherlock , but Skype wouldn't help with this..."  
"It's fine. Where is the body?"  
He quickly pointed out the 'obvious' stab wounds to the stomach, and that the case was 'too easy'.  
Lestrade looked at him.  
"Alright, get back to the flat, I'll get a cab for you."  
"I don't need your 'help'" Sherlock spat.  
Lestrade blinked, "Er, fine."  
Sherlock returned to the flat, covered in blood.  
"Sherlock! Oh dearie! You're covered in blood!" Mrs. Hudson gasped.  
"I like it this way."  
"Sherlock!"  
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I'll go change..."  
He raced up the stairs, much more like a 12 year old boy, than a 25 year-old man.  
John was surfing the Internet, and heard the commotion.  
"Sherlock! What did I say about cases?!"  
"You're not my mummy John!"  
"Sherlock! Listen! You're in a bit of a delicate state!"  
U  
"I know! The ultrasound confirmed the suspicions, and the at home test confirmed it too! I'm not a child John! I drew samples!"  
"But you're /carrying/ one!"  
Sherlock stopped.  
"Sherlock?"  
Sherlock collapsed on the floor and threw up.  
"I'm fine!" He said shakily getting up.  
John rubbed his back.  
"No, Sherl, you're having some morning sickness... It's okay, but it can dehydrate you."  
"I'm fine, John! I'm going to go lie down..."  
Sherlock looked at him.  
"Sherlock, you're bleeding."  
John took out a first aid kit, and cleaned each of Sherlocks wounds.  
Sherlock traced the many bandages on his body.  
He sat on the floor, in his boxer shorts, trying to fall asleep.  
John came around with some tea and biscuits, hoping Sherlocks tummy would accept food.  
Sherlock ate the biscuits and drank some tea, much to Johns surprise and delight.  
He knew he was holding another human being inside him, and he smiled. Not a cocky smile, but a genuine one. He put his hands on his stomach, and rubbed soothing circles in it.  
"John, we need to eat dinner. I'm hungry."  
"Chinese takeaway? I'll get my coat, and you get your shoes, and clothes on."  
Sherlock changed, then went to the cafe.  
He ordered a copious amount of food, and John looked at him.  
"You're gonna regret this..."  
Sherlock ate the food, then looked at John.  
When they left the cafe, Sherlock was moving slower than normal.  
"Sherlock?"  
They got to the flat, and Sherlock was looking ill. He walked inside and collapsed on the couch. He curled up, holding his stomach. The flat was spinning sickeningly. John looked at him.  
"You shouldn't have eaten all that food. You're going to have a bad stomachache, and nausea..."  
Sherlock groaned.  
He rolled over, holding his stomach. John looked at him.  
Sherlock was green, and looked as if he was going to throw up any minute.  
He breathed through his nose, and looked at John pitifully.  
"You shouldn't have eaten so much, you barely eat yourself!"  
"John, I have another human being inside me, I have to eat enough for two!"  
"I know, love. But your tiny stomach can only hold so much food."  
"My stomach feels like it could explode."  
He shifted his position, wincing at the churning of his stomach.  
John helped him stand up, and took him to the loo.  
"John, I'm fine."  
"You're looking miserable. You're pale, and shaking."  
Sherlock sat up, and threw up in the toilet. He felt his muscles contract, as he expelled more food. John rubbed circles in his stomach.  
"This is terrible! You're a doctor, right? Fix me!" Sherlock complained.  
"I can't give you anything yet, you're throwing up from eating too much, and the morning sickness."  
"Ugh."  
John looked at him.  
"I know this is hard for you..."  
Sherlock threw up and managed to get some of it running down his purple shirt, and pyjama pants.  
John scooped out his mobile and snapped a pic. Sherlock glared at him.  
"Why did you do that John?"  
"Even the great Sherlock Holmes gets ill sometimes." He smiled.  
Sherlock threw up in the toilet again.  
John stroked Sherlock's stomach, immediately noticing the tight muscles and the gurgling organ. He grabbed a washrag and wiped Sherlock's neck, which had a sheen of sweat.  
Sherlock looked at him pitifully.  
"I don't feel well, John..."  
John kissed his head.  
"You'll feel better soon. The morning sickness will be gone soon, and you can not worry about throwing up everything you eat."  
Even if Sherlock never showed emotion, he couldn't help but smile.  
"I love you John." He blurted out suddenly.  
He shut his mouth quickly, hoping John didn't hear him.  
"Love you too Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock spent the night throwing up the food, and John was there to comfort him.

"Sherlock? You need any water?" John asked, as Sherlock stopped vomiting.

He shook his head, and looked at John.

"John? Can I have medicine?"

"Nope, sorry. You've been sick all night. Medicine would just make your stomach feel worse."

"John, I'm miserable! My mind can't control my stomach, and I hate it when my body isn't feeling right!"

"Everyone hates being sick love."

"John? I'm done vomiting. I'm going to lie down."

Sherlock shakily stood up, and ambled to the couch. He fell into it, groaning at his stomach becoming slightly unsettled.

He closed his eyes, and felt the room spin. He groaned, and rolled over.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at John, and got sick on the carpet.

"Mrs. Hudson! Do you have any peppermint?" John asked.

"Yes, dear, is Sherlock feeling any better?"

"No, he just got sick on the rug."

Mrs. Hudson walked in.

"Oh Sherlock!"

"I'm going to be ill..." Sherlock moaned.

He threw up on himself, and curled up.

"Here, dearie. Sit up. Now sip on this peppermint tea. It'll settle your stomach." She instructed, as Sherlock sat up.  
He sipped on the tea, feeling a cool settling sensation in his stomach.

"Thank you." He whispered.

John fell asleep in his chair, and Sherlock fell asleep, holding the rubbish bin in one hand.  
Mrs. Hudson chuckled, then left her two boys alone.

:/-:/

The next morning Sherlock woke up and looked around blearily.

"John! I'm sick!"

"Sherlock, I know. Try some ginger ale. It'll settle your stomach."

Sherlock chugged the ale, then regurgitated it back up.  
John sighed.

"Don't chug it mate, it'll make you feel worse."

Sherlock's stomach protested and he was leaning into the rubbish bin, emptying the little contents of his sick stomach.

"I feel pukey..." Sherlock groaned, ignoring the simple context of his words.

"I need to set up a saline drip, love. Your sensitive tummy won't hold even water."

"John?" He asked pitifully out of pain, "can you rub my tummy?"

John smiled, the great Sherlock Holmes, using primary school language when he had a stomachache.

He nodded and started rubbing circles in Sherlocks abdomen until the consulting detective fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

John woke up to the sounds of Mrs. Hudson cooking. Sherlock still was asleep.

He got up and immediately noticed Sherlock had regained colour in his face. There was a half eaten scone by the couch. John smiled. Sherlock was finally able to eat again.

He padded over to Sherlock.

"So, the sickness stopped finally."

"I never thought I would thoroughly enjoy food until after the morning sickness passed. I'm so hungry all the time! Speaking of food, John can you buy some whipped topping and tuna? I want a sandwich."

John looked at him, "God, Sherl, that's disgusting!"

"I'm pregnant, what do you want from me?"

"To have a normal diet."

"I'm going to go and eat some of what Mrs. H is cooking."

John smiled, after two and a half months, the morning sickness had passed for Sherlock. Now all he had to worry about was keeping Sherlocks ' bottomless' stomach full with food.

Sherlock walked in, munching on a scone, and smiling. He drank some tea, then went to the pantry, and shoved some biscuits in his mouth.

John laughed. Sherlock was finally eating without throwing up.

Sherlock stroked his stomach and smiled.

He had started to get attached to the foetus inside himself.

John pushed a plate of spaghetti towards Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed the fork, and ate ravenously. John looked at him.

"Slow down, love. You're going to make yourself ill. You don't want to be back in the loo for another night, right?"

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes full of fear.

"Oh, love. You look terrified. What's wrong?"

"You're going to leave me." Sherlock whispered. John knew not to tell him otherwise. The mood swings were almost upon them. Sherlock dropped the fork, and looked at John.

"I'm still here, love."

Sherlock brought his hands to his stomach. He stared wearily at his abdomen.

"Yes. You're pregnant Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him. "I'm watching a movie."

"Scoot your fat bum over, I'm joining you." John said. Sherlock looked at him, feeling tears in his eyes.

"I'm not fat John!" He wailed.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to word it that way. I want to curl up with you, and watch a film." He kissed the overly hormonal man.

"Er, should I leave?" Greg asked awkwardly from the doorway.

"John, I'm hungry."

"Okay, go make yourself something."

Sherlock stood up, and walked to the kitchen, and prepared chicken and waffles. He came back in, and John and Greg stared at him.

Lestrade scooted out, and John looked at Sherlock.

"That, is bloody disgusting!"

"I'm pregnant. What do you want me to do? Eat normal stuff?"

"No love. Start the film."

Sherlock hit 'play' on the DVD player.

The movie started and Sherlock was muttering about the inconsistencies, and how he was feeling ill again. John shushed him. He whined from the increase hormone levels.

By the end of the film, Sherlock had complained about the plot, characters, and storyline, much to Johns displeasure. John looked at him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him wearily.

"John, I think I didn't cook the chicken well enough..."

"Christ, Sherlock. You would be dead if you didn't have me around."

"John, I really didn't cook it enough!"

Sherlock was looking at him pitifully. The risen hormone levels, causing him to tear up.

"Christ, go to the loo. You did this to yourself Sherl..."

John looked at the chicken, still pink in the middle. He sighed.

"Sherlock! This was still pink in the middle! It was undercooked! You deserve everything you got! You need to check the internal temperature and look inside before you shove this down your esophagus!"

John heard a moan.

"You need to look at things better!"

John started hearing the all too familiar sound of Sherlock emptying his stomach.

He waited until Sherlock returned, looking ill again. John smirked.

Sherlock groaned.

Mrs. Hudson came in, and rubbed Sherlocks shoulder.

"Dearie, do you need some peppermint tea? That works on upset stomachs."

Sherlock shook his head. No.

John noticed Sherlock had regained colour again, and so he looked at him.

The detective was trembling, and whining. He never acted this way. They were only at two months, and Sherlock still had six more to go.

Sherlock curled into the couch, nuzzling John's jumper. John ran a hand through Sherlocks tangled curls, smiling.

"Did we learn our lesson about proper meat temperature?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Brilliant, now go to sleep and I'll make sure you have a better meal tomorrow, that won't cause you to be ill because of your stupidity."

"Yes Doctor..."


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade was sitting in the drawing room, and looked at John.

"We need to go to a small island for a case, it's really serious...and..."

"Sherlock is supposed to come?"

"Yes, and its a big-"

"He's ill. He can't go."

"I think I can decide this!" Sherlock complained.

"Sherlock! You're sick! You can't go!"

"I can if I want to!"

"I'm coming too!" John added.

Sherlock scowled.

"Great, meet me at London harbour tomorrow."

Lestrade walked out.

"John, uhm, I...I unfortunately get seasick, I haven't been on a boat since I was in Uni. It's really awful seasickness... Lestrade knows, but I can't even imagine vomiting in front of Anderson and Donavan!"

"I can pick up some Dramamine, it should settle your stomach."

-:?$&

The next day, they arrived at the harbour, and Sherlock was looking ill already. John looked at him.

They stepped onto the boat, and Sherlock lost all colour in his face. He was sweating.

"Freak gets seasick?!"

"I'm not seasick! I have the stomach flu!"

John blinked. Sherlock never admitted being ill, never!

Sherlock suppressed a shiver. He felt cold sweat on his face and neck. Johns face was out of focus, and the world was spinning. He leaned against the railing, feeling his stomach churn. John put a cool hand on his clammy forehead.

"Freaks seasick."

"Shut up Anderson!" John spat.

Sherlock wanted to smile, but he knew that any movement would upset his delicate stomach.

Anderson laughed, as Sherlock started to swallow saliva.

Sherlocks eyes widened as he felt the boat move. He opened his mouth, and emptied his stomach into the sea. John rubbed his back as he retched. He continued vomiting until he could only do dry heaves. John felt his heart break. The most brilliant man he had ever met, was as weak as a newborn kitten that was crying for milk. Sherlock was shaking, and John led him to the lower deck, and got him a rubbish bin. The younger man retched, feeling bile pour.

"John... Help...me..."

"Shh, it's okay love, it's okay." John stroked matted curls, and pulled the detective into a position that wouldn't cause him to choke on his vomit.

Sherlock cried, as John sat by him. John had only seen him cry once, and that was three years ago, the fall. He held the shaking detective, as Sherlock started to shiver again.

Sherlock whimpered. John was worried, he took out a thermometer, and held it under the detectives tougne. He gasped at the number: 39.9 degrees.

The boat went over a rough spot, and Sherlock threw up again. John was stroking Sherlocks spine. Sherlock shuddered as the boat stopped at the small island.

"Okay, Sherlock, the boat docked. You think you'll be okay?"

"I feel sick John... I want to go back to Baker Street... I'm going to solve this, then go straight back home!"

"Greg, he's really feeling unwell. I'm taking him back. Sorry."

"Yeah, take him home. He really looks dreadful."

John led Sherlock onto the boat, and held him until the boat docked back at London.

Sherlock stumbled onto the cobblestone and doubled over as he threw up. John put a hand on Sherlocks back. Sherlock stumbled to the flat, and collapsed on the couch, as John retrieved a bucket, and cold water for a flannel. Sherlock was sweating, and shaking. John pushed a cool rag on his friends head. Sherlock moaned. John sighed.

"John, I'm hot..."

John helped him into more comfortable clothes, and stroked the detectives matted curls. Sherlock was grateful for a cool touch on his burning skin.

John grabbed the thermometer and checked the ailing man's temp.

"Sherlock, I need to get you in the hospital, I'm sorry."

"No, no hospitals! No! I hate them!" Sherlock begged.

"Love I'm sorry, you are really ill. You are close to brain damage."

Sherlock stared at him.

"You're going and the doctors are gonna heal you."

Sherlock felt tears well up.

"Don't let them take me, John! No!"

John scooped him up, and kissed his matted curls.

They drove to the surgery, as Sherlock began to have fever dreams.

"Don't... Don't take my John... Don't touch him! No!"

Sherlock thrashed in johns firm hold. John kept whispering calming words to him.

When they arrived, Sherlock rolled over, and started coughing, as his bones ached.

John was feeling useless. Sherlock was ill, and they could potentially lose the child.

Sherlock began to dry heave, as his whole body shuddered.

"Sherlock! I know you're in pain, but I need to give you an iv line."

John lifted him onto a bed, and started inserting the cannola into his friends hand. Sherlock whined, as the cold medicine entered his veins. He sat up, and flipped through tv channels. Nothing was on, so he tried sleep.

John gave him a glass of clear soda, having him sip on the liquid. Sherlock gagged, and threw up again. He sighed.

"Sherlock, I'm getting a nurse."

John left, and grabbed the first nurse he could find.

She came in, as Sherlock started to retch. He squeezed his eyes shut, immediately feeling vertigo. He whimpered, as John rubbed his back. He had given up being an arrogant prick for the time being. He retched again, feeling his throat burn. John ran a finger down Sherlocks spine.

"John, my stomach hurts!"

"The nurse says you just have a bad case of vertigo, the child is fine, you just were slightly dehydrated from all the vomiting. Do you want to go home?"

Sherlock nodded like a child.

-/

They arrived back home, and Sherlock was looking sicker than before.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

He looked at the detective, noticing Sherlock had curled into himself, and was groaning every few minutes.

"Sherl, you don't look well."

"John, my stomach keeps rolling... I think I'm going to be ill!"

John grabbed the bucket, and caught the vomit.

He was worried, the symptoms were pointing to a ruptured appendix. He heard Sherlock wail in pain, and drove him to the a&e.

John had never seen Sherlock in so much pain. His heart broke as Sherlock cried, not faking, but real tears full of pain. The detective vomited, and John pulled out his phone.

"Mycroft, this is an emergency, Sherlock has an erupted appendix, get a surgery prep team ready. He's gonna be there in two minutes."

Sherlock looked at him, like a cat left in the rain.

"My stomach hurts. I feel sick. I'm going to die."

John kept stroking Sherlocks hair, as the younger man retched again. Sherlock wiped his mouth, and looked at John, wide-eyed. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, and groaned loudLy.

John gave Sherlock a anti-emetic, after noticing the hilly road made Sherlock look very ill. Unfortunately, the medicine was no help, as Sherlock heaved up his stomach contents, having some of it come out his nose. He looked at John, and lurched forward as another wave of sickness overcame him.

Sherlock was crying, as his stomach rebelled. John stroked his spine.

Sherlock barfed one last time, as he let exhaustion sweep over him.

John looked at the sick man, and rubbed Sherlocks stomach, hoping some massage would help the sickly detective.

"John..." He rasped. "My stomach HURTS! I think I'm going to vomit again..."

Sherlock felt another wave of nausea, as his stomach rebelled.

John looked at the pool of vomit at Sherlocks feet. The cab jerked suddenly, and Sherlock was at the mercy of his weakened stomach.

They arrived at the hospital, and Sherlock was whisked away. John knew that potentionally, they could lose the baby. After Sherlock had been taken to the surgery theatre, he sat down and cried.

He sobbed, hoping his boyfriend would be okay. So many scenarios rushed through his head, losing the baby, Sherlock never being able to COPE with losing a child. Losing SHERLOCK. He let all the tears out, as Mycroft approached him.

"John, Sherlock and the child are fine, he has just had his appendix removed, as it was close to rupturing. He has a bandage on his stitches, which will not stretch as the child grows."

"Can I see him?"

"Oh, yes, but he isn't exactly lucid right now."

John walked into the room, and saw the sleeping detective.

Sherlock had lost all colour in his face, and had an iv line in.

"Sherlock? You awake?"

"My tummy hurts John, I think I ate too much..."

"Love, you just had an appendectomy. You're going to have an upset stomach."

"John, I have a bump..."

John ran a hand on Sherlocks stomach, and felt a bump. He smiled widely, and stroked the bump.

"You're getting along fantastically Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked at him.

"I'm fat John." He whispered.

"No. You're pregnant Sherlock."

Sherlock started crying, as his hormones spiked. John held his hand, and kissed him.

"You're beautiful...always."

"No! I'm not!" Sherlock sobbed.

"You're the most amazing person. And I love you."

"But! I'm preggers John! I'm a freak!"

"Hey, you're NOT a freak Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked at him, "I'm hungry John."

"You feel like you'd hold food down okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

John ordered some jello and ice lollies for Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up, instantly feeling nauseaous again. He groaned.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine..." He gasped, willing his mind to control his stomach.

"If you're going to be sick, you don't have to feel embarrassed, or will yourself not to throw up. I'm used to this. I'm a doctor. It's better to expel your stomach contents, you'll be less miserable."

Sherlock swallowed and looked very ill. He felt his stomach give a strong pitch, as he gripped the sides of the bed. He knew he was fighting a losing battle with his stomach. Sherlock opened his mouth as a stream of vomit splattered on the linoleum floor. He swallowed gulps of air, feeling another wave of nausea. He moaned, as he retched out bile. John and Mycroft looked at him.

"Sherlock, your food is here."

The jello and ice lollies made his stomach churn horribly, he choked down the jello, wincing at the slimy texture, the ice lollies soothed his throat, as his stomach rebelled. He started breathing erratically, as John kissed his hair. Sherlock vomited again, and smiled at John.

"At least in 4 months I won't be fat..."


End file.
